


An Englishman Abroad

by tilda



Series: An Englishman's Travels [2]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/pseuds/tilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Let’s go home,’ Nick had said.  ‘I fancy some chips and gravy.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Englishman Abroad

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [An Englishman in New York.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1336930)
> 
> Thanks to JD and Tarte, as per. Any mistakes are mine not theirs.

**London**

Harry sits in his mum’s car outside Nick’s house in Hackney and wonders how much like the old Primrose Hill flat it is. It’s a big old Victorian townhouse with a flight of steps up to the front door and bay windows on the two lower floors. Harry’s never been inside. Nick’s not inside either right now. He’s in the pub around the corner, a pub Harry also doesn't know. 

It’s all different. That should make it easier. He holds his phone, thumb hovering over Nick’s name, a nerve twitch away from calling. He doesn’t know why it’s so hard. Maybe if he talks to Nick again that’ll make it easier. He presses his thumb against Nick’s name and it disappears. Harry raises the phone to his ear and listens to the double ring. 

 

**New York**

‘Let’s go home,’ Nick had said. 

It was more than a year since the Four Seasons, early summer and already too hot. Nick had been slopping about the apartment in cut-offs and bare feet all day. He tipped back in his chair with his phone tucked against his interlaced fingers, typing fast with his thumbs.

‘Where did that come from?’ Harry murmured.

Nick shrugged, not looking up. ‘I fancy some chips and gravy.’

‘Don’t need me for that.’ Harry went back to going through the pictures from a band shoot at the weekend.

‘You should see your mum.’ 

Harry deleted a hopelessly blurred shot of the drummer. ‘I do see her.’ 

Anne came over two or three times a year, but he knew what Nick meant. He should see her at home. He knew this would come up eventually. He knew he should go home. He _wanted_ to. It was just – 

‘So. Fancy it? We could go in July, before the thing at WXRD starts.’

Harry didn’t answer. Nick finished with his text and bumped his chair back down. He went over to the pile of shoes by the lift and started stuffing his feet into his trainers. Harry glanced at the time in the corner of his screen and startled. He hadn’t realised it was so late. Nick was off to the station to do his show. He pocketed his phone and keys and came over to drop a kiss, cool and soft, on Harry’s mouth. ‘Think about it,’ he said looking down into Harry’s face. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

~

 

There was a train of thought Harry used to get on: it started with the sound of someone’s laugh, or a song on the radio, or an accent, and he was back there, back to when he was a kid, when the band was going galactic, when he first met Nick. And he would feel the rush of that time all over again, when the press were after them and it all seemed like a hilarious game. 

Then Harry would remember that afternoon towards the end, waiting for Nick in the car a few streets away from his flat. It was a tactic they’d always used to dodge the fans and it usually worked, but this time, as Nick got later and later, the girls started appearing, popping up in the distance, hovering. At some point, one or two of them came over, and he took a photo and smiled and signed, then drove off, back two streets, texted Nick to let him know, but Nick didn’t reply and still didn’t come. 

When the girls appeared in his rearview again, like threats in a videogame at the edge of the screen, the panic started to rise. He knew the paps wouldn’t be far behind and he was torn between the need for Nick to come and the need to get away. He finally gave in to the latter, just as two more girls were approaching. He drove off with a smile and a wave and their disappointed faces in his rearview. 

All he remembered after that was Nick’s silence and absence, and London, hostile and lonely, threatening to close over his head. 

~

‘Would we go to London?’

Harry slipped his shirt off and got into bed. They’d gone to dinner with friends after Nick’s show.

(‘Better not get used to this,’ they’d said to each other. It was fun doing a late night show at tea time, having a life afterwards. It would be different when Nick was doing nights in real time.) 

‘I will never understand why you put the bathroom in all the way over the other side of the fucking flat,’ Nick said as he dropped his pants into the laundry. ‘What?’

‘London. If we went home. Would we go there?’

It was the million-pound-drop question. Nick settled on his side facing Harry and they shuffled closer. ‘You don’t have to.’ He tugged the sheet up around their waists and dropped a hand over Harry’s hip. ‘I’ll go. You can do what you like. Stay with your mum, whatever. But Pix and everyone would love to see you, I bet. Gav, too.’ 

London was the monster under Harry’s bed, the ghost in the cupboard, and every so often Nick would shine a torch on it and go, ‘Look! Nothing there! Harmless!’ but Harry was never convinced. 

He raised a hand to Nick’s chest, pulling a tuft of hair gently between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Be nice to see your mum, though.’ Nick nuzzled in. ‘Gem. The new baby.’ 

Gemma had been pregnant last time she’d visited, some time between Nick’s departure and his phone call in the autumn and she’d got an earful about Harry’s broken heart. Lucky Gem. He’d not met baby George yet. Emily would be getting bigger too.

Harry made a noise of agreement and Nick crossed the last inch or so. They got lost in a kiss for a while. Eventually Harry pulled away, blinked heavy-lidded at Nick and slid his hand down his stomach. ‘You’re distracting me with sex.’

‘I’m not the one with a hand on someone’s cock.’ Nick’s eyes sank shut and he pushed into Harry’s grip. ‘You’re supposed to want to go home.’ 

 

**Cheshire**

Harry closed his eyes and felt the breeze ruffling through his hair as they drove past cartoon-green fields. It was a proper English strawberries-and-cream, hosepipe-ban summer. He let his arm flop out of the window and smiled into the sun. They were driving north from Heathrow and for the moment Harry wondered what he was so worried about. It was hot in New York, but it felt special here: every sunny day to be treasured, making strangers smile at each other – ‘Glorious day!’ ‘Isn’t it!’ – in a way Harry had forgotten. As a homecoming, it was almost too perfect. 

‘Did you plan this?’

Harry sensed Nick looking briefly at him.

‘Um. I bought the tickets. I rang my mum. I bullied you into coming. I have organisational skills, you know.’

‘Naah. The sun and stuff. How perfect it is.’

Nick laughed. ‘Yeah, I forgot to mention. Sorted the weather for you and all.’

‘Ok I get it, you were right.’

Harry had known Nick was right the minute he heard him say ‘let’s go home’, it’s just taken him a while to admit it.

‘Just so long as we’re clear.’

They swapped at Hilton Park services and Nick snoozed in the passenger seat until they were on the B-road to Holmes Chapel. He woke up at the drop in speed, rubbed his eyes under his glasses, blinked and looked around.

‘Don’t you dare say “Are we there yet?”’

‘But it’s traditional.’ 

Harry smirked and took the last exit, turning the wheel with the palm of his hand, and the car trundled slowly into the village. 

It had been eight years.

~

‘Hi Harry.’

‘Hiya. Been waiting long?’

‘Just came this morning. Only a couple of hours.’

‘Wow. That’s really dedicated. Thank you.’ 

_Dedicated. Thank you._

He handed them back their concert programmes – Birmingham from the week before, or Manchester from April – newly signed. He bent down to peer into their phone screens, felt their fingers grip the hem of his t-shirt at his hip too hard as they smiled and took the picture. It happened again, further down the street – this time the girl’s fingers were shaking and she nearly dropped her phone – and again, round the corner. 

He’d stopped taking the direct route into the village a couple of years before, but they still knew, still Tweeted, still gathered: kids seeming to look in shop windows but really checking the reflection for movement behind them; pretending to post a letter; taking selfies of themselves with the buns in Mandevilles. Kids turned bored private investigators, alone and in small groups, wandering the streets.

~

They weren’t there anymore. It was as if they’d just been figures painted on a transparency that had been whisked away. Harry leaned forward over the wheel, peering through the windscreen. There was only the odd yummy-mummy running errands in their SUVs. Harry looked down the High Street. None of the shops had even changed. Nothing had changed in eight years, but of course, everything had. 

A horn sounded behind him and a Range Rover swooshed by. Harry caught the driver’s irritated glare as it passed. 

‘Think you better speed up, love,’ said Nick gently. ‘We can go for a proper nose later.’

Reluctantly, Harry put his foot down and before long they were turning into his old road. As they rolled up the drive Anne and Gemma appeared from round the side of the house. Gemma was carrying a bundle, while Emily pushed past her and stopped to stand a few paces in front – bold, curious, watchful – staring at Harry and Nick’s car. But as Harry stepped out of the car, Anne was all he could see, coming towards him, beaming, arms out. ‘My darling.’

He leaned down to hug her. He’d only seen her a couple of months back when she visited him and Nick, but this seemed different as she held him at arm’s length to look at him, brushing his hair back from his face. Her eyes were dangerously watery. The other car door slammed and she looked over at Nick, sighing, ‘Oh love,’ and releasing Harry.

Harry walked up the drive, scooping up Emily on his way to Gem. Emily took Harry’s hat and put it on her own head. ‘Hullo, Uncle Harry,’ she said as Harry bounced her along.

‘Hello Emily,’ he said, just as seriously. She was a dry kid, so like a mini-Gemma it was frightening. He hugged Gemma one-armed. ‘Mate.’ He squeezed her as close as he could, given their respective infant packages, taking a handful of her still-long hair. ‘’Sgood to see you, Jam.’

‘Likewise, Marmite.’ Gemma looked past his shoulder, and her smile grew. ‘All right, Grimshaw.’

Harry turned to see his mum and Nick walking up the drive, his arm slung around her, and Anne hugging herself to his side, dwarfed and delighted. 

‘Yes, thank you, Styles Major. You all right?’

‘All the better for seeing you.’ She reached up to receive his kiss on her cheek. ‘Emily, say hello to your new uncle.’

Nick stuck his hand out to Emily to shake. ‘Hello Emily. Nice to meet you.’

‘Hullo.’ She grasped two of his fingers and shook those. ‘Mummy lets me stay up late to listen to you sometimes.’

‘Wow, that’s _late_. Do you like it?’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘The music’s a bit weird.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘But you’re quite funny,’ she conceded. 

Nick let out a burst of rusty laughter. ‘Thank you. You should come on the show and review it one night.’

‘Hey, Em,’ Harry said, beginning to let her go. ‘I want to have a go on your baby brother. That ok?’

‘S’pose so,’ she said sliding down to the ground. ‘He’ll prob’ly puke on you.’

‘Well, that’s a risk I’m prepared to take,’ he said, taking the bundle from Gemma.

He looked inside the folds of blanket to find the squashed red features of his new nephew. ‘Hey, little guy,’ he said softly. 

Gemma snorted. ‘God, you sound American.’

‘Shut up,’ said Harry, still soft, not looking up. ‘Wow, he’s ugly. You’re ugly aren’t you? Yes, you are.’

‘You’re gonna give him issues,’ Nick says.

‘Oh I used to say that to Harry all the time. I think he’s done all right.’

‘Are you sure, Anne? Sometimes I worry.’

They began to walk higgledy-piggledy round the side of the house, chatting and laughing. Emily tugged on Harry’s t-shirt. ‘Come and see my paddling pool.’ 

He was glad they weren’t going in the house yet. In between Emmy’s paddling pool and a late lunch in the garden he managed to avoid it, until he got up to go to the loo and Emily said confidently, ‘You’ve never been to Gran-gran's house before. I’ll show you round.’

She only looked a little puzzled at the laughter around the table, and when Harry started to say, ‘Well actually, Em,’ she was off, tugging him by the hand again. ‘All right,’ he said, shrugging at the others. ‘You show me round.’ He followed Emily into the kitchen, dark after the brightness of the garden.

In a way it was fitting. It had been so long and things had changed enough for him to want to be shown it. He knew where the downstairs loo was, but his room didn’t exist any more and the living-room was all changed round. They went up the stairs.

‘There’s all pictures of you and Mummy,’ she said, pointing out the flight of photographs going up the wall. ‘You get littler and littler,’ she says proudly. ‘’n’ you’re babies at the top.’ Harry guessed that this was something she worked out herself.

‘That’s very clever.’

‘Gran-gran did it,’ she said, before marching him down the corridor like a busy estate agent. He half-expected her to say, ‘Chop chop, we’ve got a lot to get through.’

‘This is the upstairs loo.’ 

‘Right,’ said Harry, peering in dutifully, even though it was exactly the same. He felt a tug at his hand and they were off again. They arrived at the room at the back of the house.

‘This is the study. Gran-gran works here.’

There was a desk by the window with an ancient-looking computer on it, and shelves along the wall with neatly stacked box files. Anne probably did her charity work in here. 

It was Harry’s old room. There were no posters of Coldplay or Harry Potter, no rumpled bed with Spongebob duvet cover, or smelly trainers and school uniform. 

And Emily was clambering up onto the desk from the chair and Harry darted over, reaching his arms out, saying ‘careful’ reflexively. But she was obviously well-practised at this because she knelt up on the desk without incident, nestling in by the computer to look out of the window. Harry rested one hand on the window frame above her and looked down at the others in the garden. His mum and Gemma were laughing about something, Gemma holding a glass of wine and leaning on Nick’s chair. Nick had George cradled in his arms, head bent over him. Harry couldn’t see his face but he looked totally absorbed, with a towel over his shoulder, so he must have been carrying him a minute ago. Gemma looked up, saw them and waved.

‘Hello, Mummy!’ said Emily, waving back. Harry waved too, mouthing ‘hiya’ at Gem. At Gemma’s hand on his shoulder, Nick looked up, smiling full-beam at Harry, open and guileless. ‘Hello, Uncle Nick,’ Emily called, seemingly without thinking. Something soft and blancmange-y collapsed inside Harry. After a minute, he touched Emily’s shoulder. 

‘Hey. Are you gonna show me the rest of the house?’

Immediately, she scrambled down, taking Harry’s hand for balance, grabbing at his jeans, then she was down and off, running to the next room. Harry followed.

‘This is Gran-gran’s room.’ 

Emily didn’t go inside, just hovered on the threshold, and so did Harry. It was a beautiful room, simply furnished, spotless, the late sun streaming in. He couldn’t believe there was once a time when he and Gem would have felt no compunction about piling in, sitting down at her dressing-table to poke through her perfumes and make-up. Emily’s reverence seemed to instil some in him too, and neither of them entered. He felt Emily’s hand in his again.

‘Come on,’ she said softly. 

They walked down the corridor to the other, smaller, front bedroom. Emily ran in and bounced on the double bed that had been made up. ‘And this is where you and Uncle Nick will be sleeping! I helped Gran-gran with the sheets.’

‘It’s lovely, thank you.’

Harry went over to sit more sedately on the bed, propping himself against the headboard. 

‘Hey, Em,’ he said, patting the cover beside him. ‘You know something?’

‘What?’ She wasn’t looking at him, still bouncing, making them both bob up and down.

‘I have been to Gran-gran’s house before, you know.’

Emily stopped bouncing and looked around at him. ‘When?’

‘Before you were born. Actually. I used to live here.’

Emily’s eyes went very big. ‘ _Really_?’ she breathed.

‘Yeah. You know the room where Gran-gran works?’

Emily nodded.

‘That was my room.’

‘Was it when you were little? Like in the photos?’

‘Yes, and a bit older too.’

‘Before you went on the telly.’

 _The telly_. It seemed impossible that the nursery word could stand for everything that happened then. The madness. ‘Yes, just before then.’

A knock at the door made them look up. Nick was lounging in the doorway, a bottle of beer dangling from one hand, a tumbler of squash in the other. He offered the squash to Emily.

‘Here you go, kiddo. Your mum sent this up.’ 

She held out her hands for it and Nick came over to give it to her. She raised it to her mouth with both hands, slurping thirstily. Nick plonked himself on the other side of her from Harry, leaning on his elbow, resting the beer-bottle on his hip.

‘This ours?’ he said, looking around.

‘Yup. Em helped with the sheets and everything.’

Emily nodded, out of breath – she’d drained the glass in nearly one go and had a shiny squash moustache either side of her top lip.

‘Thanks, Em,’ Nick said. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘That’s what Uncle Harry said.’

Nick smiled into his bottle as he took a swig. Emily looked like she was thinking. ‘Are you married?’

This shocked a giggle out of both of them. Harry always forgot how terrifyingly direct kids were. ‘No, we’re not,’ he said, still laughing a bit. 

‘What’s funny? Aren’t you going to? You can, you know.’

‘We might do,’ Nick said. ‘Uncle Harry would look nice in a big white dress, wouldn’t he?’

Now Emily giggled. Harry shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘I think Uncle Nick would look much better. Something massive and floofy.’

‘Like a meringue?’ Emily’s eyes lit up.

‘Absolutely. A big lemon meringue pie.’

‘Nope,’ said Nick. ‘Yellow’s never suited me.’

‘Can I be a bridesmaid?’

Harry swung his legs off the bed and offered his hand to Emily. ‘Course you can, darling.’ Nick got up and offered his too. ‘You can be a mini-meringue,’ he said, and they swept her off the bed together.

 

~

They stayed for three days. Harry had his ‘proper nose’ through the village, visiting the bakery and the pub where he did his obligatory stint of underage drinking. They got a bit pissed there and Harry took Nick home via the chippy, treating him to chips and gravy.

‘I feel like a princess,’ Nick said, planting a damp, salty kiss on Harry’s mouth. ‘Four pints of Carling _and_ chips. Consider yourself pulled.’ He pushed a couple of chips between Harry’s lips and Harry chewed. There really wasn’t anything like a proper chip from home, brown and fat. When they got home, they had louder, messier than normal sex (they’d been almost silent up to now. They’d kept entirely under the covers, and at the centre of the bed, like Harry imagined Victorians had sex, only more fun, faces close, panting and smiling, bodies locked together like puzzle pieces.)

Another day they went for lunch with old friends of the family, outside a pub, the kids running around. Harry was reminded of when he and Gemma used to do the same. 

‘So, what are your plans?’ someone asked Harry. ‘Staying here the whole time, or are you going down to the Big Smoke?’

‘Nick’s going. I might join him. Dunno.’

‘I thought you’d be straight down there. We could hardly keep you here in the old days.’

‘I want to fit in a visit to Matt and everyone. See their kids. Be a bit of a squeeze with London. I can always go back there another time.’

Nick glanced over at him briefly but didn’t say anything until later when they were back home. 

‘I thought you were gonna come.’

‘When did I say that?’

‘Just thought you’d change your mind when you got back home.’

‘Well, I didn’t.’

Nick looked hurt and Harry relented. ‘I’m thinking about it, ok?’

He had been thinking about it. He’d been thinking what a nice time he was having back home and how that was enough for now. He’d been trying not to think about London itself, looming beyond the M6. He knew everything that was a threat to him there was gone: the fans, the press, that last broken day. But he still felt a stab of panic that he couldn’t explain to Nick. 

 

**London**

Nick picks up after a couple of rings. ‘Y’all right, chuck?’ 

His voice is grounding. Harry starts to breathe again. ‘Um, yeah. How are you?’

‘I just spoke to you a minute ago. Are you losing it?’

He looks through the driver’s window at Nick’s empty house. He slips his fingers around the door-handle, pulling it towards him but not tripping the mechanism. ‘I don’t know. Maybe?’

‘What’s the matter?’ The chatter at the other end gets quieter, as if Nick’s moved away. Harry imagines him with his finger in his ear, frowning into the phone. ‘You getting cabin fever up there?’

‘Is it busy?’

‘What?’

‘The pub. Where you are.’

‘Not really. Us. A couple of other tables. Haz...’

‘Who’s there?’

‘I told you before. Pix. George. Gav. A couple of others you don’t know. They say hi.’

Before he can second-guess himself Harry pulls the handle towards himself and gets out, phone tucked into the crook of his shoulder. ‘Talk to me.’ He slams the car door.

‘What was that noise? Did you go for a drive?’

‘What’ve you been talking about? With Pix and everyone.’

There’s a pause then a small puff of laughter and Nick starts to talk.

 

**Cheshire**

He took photographs, a lot of them, of all sorts of things. Small things – his mum’s box files, all lined up, one askew; one of Emily’s sandals on the lawn; George’s open, squawling, gummy mouth. They went on long walks and he took pictures of the landscape, of the cut wheat stalks that poked sharply up their trouser legs as they tramped across the fields. Of the Venn diagram of Nick’s shirt, t-shirt and skin, as he lay in the sun, saturated in light. Of Emily standing alone in the middle of a field, her back to him, sundress drifting in a breeze, pale limbs and hair making her look like a ghost caught out in the day. 

(‘I’m having that one,’ Gemma said at his shoulder, as he took it.)

Of Nick with George in the garden, swooping him up gently above his head, gurgling nonsense. He didn’t know Harry was there at first, until as he got closer, the click of the shutter gave him away.

‘You could never be a spy, Styles,’ said Nick without looking over. He settled George back into the crook of his arm and went to sit in a garden chair, resting his toes on the seat of another. He lay George back against his thighs, giving George his thumbs to grab. ‘Could he, Georgie? Uncle Harry would make rubbish spy. Yes he would.’

Harry carried on shooting as Nick chatted to George.

The girls had gone into town to get Emily a new school uniform, and Nick and Harry had offered to babysit, keep George out of their hair. All the boys together on Nick’s last day. Harry still hadn’t said anything about London. With a camera in his hand he could put off anything indefinitely. 

He was shooting in black and white, which he didn’t usually. He was thinking about the developing process at the same time as he took them – the pictures emerging out of the white paper, back home in New York, Nick in profile, laughing up into George’s face. It was something about photography that he’d become used to: being taken out of the moment, made an observer, in space, in time. 

‘Stop it,’ Nick murmured as he rubbed his nose against George’s and George reached pudgy fingers for his glasses. ‘Come and sit down like a normal person.’

‘In a minute.’

‘It’s still happening if you’re not taking a photo of it, you know.’

‘Wow, I’ve never heard that before.’ He clicked on Nick raising one eyebrow at the lens. ‘Are you gonna tell me to just enjoy the moment as well?’

‘That was next, yes.’ Harry captured the ironic twitch to his lips. ‘Then I was going to tell you that you weren’t living your life fully behind a viewfinder.’

Harry stood over them and Nick looked up into the lens, fingers splayed across George’s back. Harry made the mechanical noise of a shutter closing in time with his finger pressing the button, moving into Nick’s face until Nick was laughing and raising his hand to cover the lens. ‘No pictures, please. We’re breastfeeding.’ 

Harry laughed. ‘Now that I would pay to see.’ He put his camera down on the table and stretched his arms out for George. 

Nick handed him over. ‘Go and see Uncle Annie Leibovitz, then.’

George fussed a little, grabbing Harry’s hair before settling against his shoulder. Harry bounced him gently and craned back to look at his face, see how his jiggling was being received. George’s expression had gone from open-mouthed uncertainty to tentative smile. It was a solid six, then. Harry bounced him a bit more and lifted him above his head, looking up at him, George giggling and grabbing for his face.

‘What about London? Finished thinking?’ Nick said after a while. Harry knew he’d waited till he’d got Harry when he was at his most relaxed and open. 

‘Suppose so,’ he said. George’s fingers landed on Harry’s cheek and pinched his lip glancingly.

‘And?’

Harry swung George down to land in the crook of his arm. ‘I was thinking I might not, actually.’

‘Oh.’ 

Nick gave the short word about three differently inflected syllables and made it sound like a question, a statement and an exclamation all at once. Harry puffed out a sigh. ‘You’re disappointed.’

‘No. It’s fine, I get it.’

‘Liar.’

Nick shrugged. ‘I was looking forward to you being there. Break you in before we move back for good.’ 

There was a nervous breath of laughter at the end of his last sentence. Harry joined in. ‘Oh ha ha, Grimshaw, very good.’

They laughed softly together for a moment before Nick murmured, ‘Fuck.’

‘Fuck what?’

‘I didn’t want it to come up like this.’

Harry looked over at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Haz. It’s kind of not a joke.’

Harry swallowed and hugged George a little tighter, making him grizzle. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Us. Moving back to London. At some point.’

‘Moving back,’ Harry repeated blankly. He dropped his nose to the pate of George’s head, breathed in the smell of baby. ‘Is that why we came here?’ 

Nick sighed. ‘The way you react when I even mention London. I could hardly come out and say _let’s move back_. I had to get you back here – there – ’

‘“Get me back here”?’ 

‘Haz –’

‘You tricked me into coming here?’ 

‘What?’ Nick snapped. ‘Because it’s been awful seeing your mum and your sister and your old house, hasn’t it? Your mum’s so fucking made up you’re here. Yes, she comes to see you in New York, but it’s not the same, is it? I didn’t _trick_ you. Don’t be a drama queen.’ 

Harry pulled George in closer. ‘Don’t. You’ll upset George.’ But when he looked down, George’s eyelids were drooping. 

‘I didn’t mean to talk about it like this. I’m sorry. I just thought you’d come.’

‘Sorry for ruining your little scheme.’

‘It’s not...’ Nick began, then seemed to give up. Harry leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He heard Nick get up and disappear into the house. 

Of course. Of fucking course Nick wanted to go back to London. It was Nick’s home, it always had been, since he was twenty. Harry knew that. He wondered if Anne and Nick had cooked this up between them. His mum had never seemed to mind before, or if she did, it was the usual jokes about him never writing or calling that all mums made. But he didn’t know many people who lived three thousand miles away from theirs and hadn’t been back in eight years. 

The sound of a camera shutter broke into his thoughts. Harry opened his eyes blearily to see Nick leaning against the garden table, his face hidden by the camera pointed at Harry and George. Harry covered George’s back instinctively. He squinted up and saw the tiny reflection of himself and his baby nephew in the lens. Nick turned the camera so he was taking a portrait shot. Harry looked away, his face to the side. Nick carried on shooting his profile.

‘You massive pain in the arse,’ Harry murmured. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Ah, don’t be like that. You and Georgy-porgy look so peaceful.’

‘Nick.’ 

Nick dropped the camera away from his face, smiling wickedly. ‘Taste of your own medicine.’

‘I don’t need one, thanks,’ Harry said sharply. ‘I used to take it all the time.’ 

His sudden flare of anger was doused by the sound of a commotion from indoors. ‘Hiyaaaa! Anybody ho-ome?’

Harry got up to take George inside. Nick had frozen, holding the camera at chest level, biting his lip, looking like guilt come to life. _Good_ , thought Harry.

‘In the garden!’ he called, holding Nick’s gaze. ‘Didn’t think that through, did you?’ he said to Nick before turning to go inside and admire new uniforms and hand a complain-y George over to Gemma. 

Over dinner, Harry made pea plate-faces with Emily – the peas were from the garden and Harry and Emily had podded them together – while Nick aeroplaned spoonfuls of mashed sweet potato into George’s waiting mouth. Gemma sat back with a glass of wine, delighted to be relieved of parenting duties. On the surface they were the perfect Oxo family. But Harry could sense his mum looking curiously at them and he knew why. He and Nick were, very cleverly and inconspicuously, completely ignoring each other. It was almost like they’d made a tacit agreement to take a kid each to pour all their attention into so they could avoid each other, and Anne was sharp to it. Harry knew there’d be an interrogation at some point soon. Maybe later. Maybe after Nick had gone. But it was coming.

They tiptoed around each other as they got ready for bed that night, carefully not catching each other’s eyes, having a stiffly polite ‘You go’, ‘No, you first’ bathroom exchange. When Harry came back Nick was sitting up with a book on his tented knees and his glasses on. He didn’t look up as Harry got into bed, being careful not to jostle him. Harry lay on his side with his phone in his hand, scrolling through his email and Twitter. He ended up staring at the wall trying to think of the magic words that would make this all right. But the only ones he could think of were, ‘I’ll come to London,’ and that ship had sailed.

Nick would never stop wanting to go back. And the kicker of it was, Harry got it. Nick belonged there, he always had. London was home to Nick, in a way Oldham never could have been. It was where Harry always imagined him, even though he’d seen him in New York every day for the past six months. It was the opposite of what Harry wanted. He was stuck. 

For the first time since they’d arrived in England, he missed New York. 

Harry closed his eyes and listened to Nick breathe as he read. He turned over and pressed his forehead against Nick’s hip. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t feel much like having sex, he wasn’t sure what he wanted, he’d just never felt further away from Nick and he hated it. 

Nick’s hand settled slowly on his head, scratching through his hair, thumb stroking over his ear. They didn’t seem able to speak right now without treading on some emotional landmine, and Harry didn’t dare break this fragile moment of connection, so he kept quiet, Nick’s fingers stroking through his hair lulling him. He was almost asleep when Nick’s hand disappeared and the light went out. He woke a little when Nick lay down next to him and they moved towards each other without thinking, their limbs tangling and drawing their bodies close, like they did every night when they went to bed, pressing close to fall asleep or fuck. 

The dark made it safe, and Harry sought out Nick’s mouth to press a kiss he wasn’t sure would be welcomed (that he wasn’t sure he wanted to give) in the light. But this was Nick, in the dark, and things were simpler here. They moved together in familiar movements, until with one soft cry and one hip roll, the sweetness switched to hot urgency and they were separating to get clothes off and to bare more skin. Harry wrestled himself out of his pants, half-aware of Nick dragging his t-shirt over his head. He crawled back over Harry and they came together naked, Harry spreading his legs, Nick pressing in, breathless, while Harry reached blindly behind him yanking at the bedside table drawer. It fell off its runners and Nick reached with him, rummaging blindly, fingers knocking against Harry’s. 

‘Got it,’ he murmured, the first words either of them had uttered since they’d gone to bed, and drew back to sit on his heels. Nick was a silhouette, a dark shape moving in the orange streetlight glow, and Harry had only hearing and touch to guide him. He heard the click of the cap on the tube and saw Nick’s arm move down to the centre of his body and move rhythmically a couple of times before he leaned over Harry and shoved two fingers unceremoniously inside him. 

‘Aah, fuck.’ Harry gasped and arched against the pressure, Nick shoving inside again and again and Harry lost himself in it, Nick’s fingers inside him, then they were gone and Harry grabbed down blindly for Nick’s cock. ‘Quick,’ he said.

‘I know.’

Then he felt the blunt nub of Nick’s cock against his hole and Nick was pushing in, sliding in on a slick of lube until he was all the way there, balls deep. They both cried out, forgot themselves and made the loudest noise they’d made since they’d been in this house. 

Nick started to fuck him, wiry and strong around him, and Harry fucked right back, shoving himself onto Nick. He didn’t know where this passion had bubbled up from, he just knew the feeling of Nick inside him obliterated everything else. Their first shouts settled to gentle rhythmic breaths and the occasional groan as they pounded against each other and the words, _I love you I’m sorry don’t leave me_ , chanted meaninglessly in Harry’s head, driving every roll of his hips. Nick sped up until the bed betrayed them, knocking against the wall and squeaking. They both giggled breathlessly and then a second later Harry had a lump in his throat. 

It was a mess, and it would still be a mess afterwards, but he loved Nick and that was all that mattered. He reached under his thighs to grab Nick’s arse and drag him in deeper and felt it pumping inside him. Nick murmured ‘love’ into his ear and Harry clung on, squeezing Nick closer with his legs around his waist, biting his shoulder. He closed his eyes and tried not to think this might be the beginning of the end. 

~

Nick left for London the next day, waved off by the whole Styles family, including baby George, his scrunched up fist wiggled back and forth by Gemma.

‘You could have gone,’ Anne said as they wandered back inside. ‘We wouldn’t have minded.’

Harry slung his arm round her shoulders. ‘Is that a subtle hint? Thanks very much.’

Anne reached up to squeeze his chin gently. ‘Noooo. I’d have you here forever, you know that. But I don’t want to keep you here.’

He squashed a kiss to her temple. ‘You could never do that, Mum.’

But he knew that she knew that he was evading her. And he knew that what she meant was not ‘you could have gone,’ but ‘why aren’t you going?’ 

He did visit his cousins, it wasn’t an avoidance tactic. Well, not just an avoidance tactic. He said bye to Gemma and George and Emily, who were going home themselves the next day, and he went to Matt’s. 

He played with even more kids and answered lots of curious questions. He went to the pub and got roped into a darts tournament. He stayed for a couple of days to prove to the Nick in his head how much he didn’t care about London and wasn’t thinking about it. It worked, mostly. Especially when Nick rang three minutes after he’d just scored a fluke treble top to win a round. All Nick could probably hear were the loud cheers of his drunken teammates. 

‘Hang on a sec,’ Harry shouted above the din. ‘Let me go outside.’

‘Sounds like you’ve just scored a goal.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said, a bit breathless. ‘Just got a treble top.’

‘No. Way.’

‘Way. Jim’s just tweeting the picture.’

Nick laughed. ‘Stuck the darts in the board and took a photo, you mean.’

‘How very dare you.’ 

It had been like this since Nick went to London. Their phone conversations were desperately normal, the piss-taking meant nothing could be really wrong. But their peace was paper thin and could tear at the slightest mis-step. They were careful not to talk about anything contentious, barely mentioning the fact of where Nick was or when he might be coming back. 

After three days with Matt and family, the Holmes Chapel house was unnervingly quiet. Gemma and the kids had gone and his mum was seemingly out for the day as well. There was no one for him to ring here, and he didn’t feel like getting out his camera. He puttered round the garden before flopping on the sofa and picking up the remote. He was disoriented at first by the number of British voices, before sinking gently into a _Heartbeat_ repeat. 

He used to do this when he was off tour, when it seemed the only sane response to eight months of murderous tour and and promo schedule was lying immobile on the sofa watching daytime TV. His life wasn’t like that anymore and this was more like being fifteen and killing time, waiting for something to happen, for his mum to come home from work. For his boyfriend to ring. 

He stabbed the off button on the remote.

He missed Nick. Of course he’d be back in a day or two, but Harry didn't much fancy even a day of _Heartbeat_ and sulking. The reasons for not going to London looked more petty and hollow than ever.

Anne came back around tea time to Harry skidding to the door and planting kisses on both cheeks. 

‘Hello, love,’ she said, deeply amused. ‘Bored already?’

‘Hahahaha, bored? No!’

She raised an eyebrow at him and dumped her bag and keys before going through to the kitchen. Harry followed. ‘Maybe a bit, yeah,’ he conceded to her back. She was putting the kettle on. ‘Good day?’

‘Yes,’ she said, leaning back against the countertop. ‘I got the trustee I was pushing for. She’s going to develop the fundraising, she’ll be really good. When did you get back?’

‘’Bout lunchtime.’

They sat down with their tea and she tapped the hand that was wrapped around his mug. ‘Why aren’t you going to London?’

He shrugged. ‘Didn’t fancy it.’

‘The _real_ reason.’

‘Mum. Don’t.’

‘ _Mummmm. Donnnnnn’t_.’ She got his fifteen-year-old whine spot on.

‘I hate you.’ They sniggered together. 

‘Come on, love,’ she said after a bit. 

Harry took a sip of his tea as he gathered his words, positioned his mug carefully back on its ring of moisture. ‘He wants to move back there.’

‘Ah.’ Anne dropped her head, hands clasped around her mug.

‘Did you know about it?’ he asked curiously. ‘About this plan?’

She looked up. ‘No darling. No, I didn’t.’

Harry searched her eyes. He knew he was being paranoid. He sighed. ‘I know. It’s just. It’s not a happy place for me. It’s not anything I saw myself doing.’

‘You’ve not been back in years. Things have probably changed a bit.’ She quirked an eyebrow at him. ‘Would it really be that bad?’

He looked up at her and quirked an eyebrow back. ‘I can’t talk to you about it. You’re biased.’

She smiled. ‘Yes I am. But would it hurt to at least visit? Maybe there’s a way for you to make new experiences there, forget the old ones. At least patch up your row. Talk to him, love.’

Harry shrugged helplessly. She was right, but going to London had become freighted with even more significance than it had before, for both of them. ‘Dunno.’ 

‘Listen.’ Anne leaned forward to clasp her hand over his arm. ‘Take my car. You can turn back any time if you get cold feet. Nobody’ll be any the wiser.’ The warmth from her hand seeped into his skin, weighting him a little.

‘Except Nick. If I said I was coming after all, then changed my mind…’

‘He doesn’t have to know, does he? Be a nice surprise for him, you on his doorstep, like the old days, eh?’

‘The old days weren’t all that, Mum.’

‘Or, not like the old days then. You know what I mean.’

They made dinner together, a couple of salads, some nice cheese and bits and bobs she’d picked up from the deli. Holmes Chapel had quinoa and goji berries now – Nick had been very impressed. As he and Anne wove around the kitchen together, the idea was growing on him. If he started early, he’d be in London by lunchtime. He couldn’t help picturing Nick’s face when he turned up. He wouldn’t just be pleased to see Harry, but Harry would be _in London_ again. It was so important to him. Anne was probably right (she usually was). Maybe it was time to make some new memories.

 

 

**London**

Nick’s voice is in his ear as he walks along, telling him a story about Pixie’s kid. Sometimes Harry did this, even in the old days. When he was tired or sad or (most often) far away, he’d say ‘talk to me’ and Nick would talk. About his day, or funny stories, or feature ideas, or venting about his agent, and Harry would listen and forget himself.

‘... and they went _all over_ the floor. George’s mum was _not_ happy. And so Pix....’

Harry is approaching the street the pub is on. They’re sitting outside and he’ll be visible when he turns the corner. He takes a breath and turns it.

The pub is at the next junction, a cluster of tables with around ten or fifteen people spread amongst them. Nick and his crew must be amongst them but he can’t identify anyone. Then he notices Nick, standing a little away, on the kerb, facing across the road. He has his phone up to his ear and a pint glass half-full of lager dangling from his other hand. He is animated, smiling, and Harry can hear both his voices now, the electrified one in his ear, and the real one carrying down the street to him. A great wave of love travels up from somewhere around his shins, rolls up through his body, past his stomach, and his chest, and breaks over his heart.

There’s a shriek from one of the tables which gives him an immediate flashback. He tenses, but it’s only Pix, standing up from amongst the others and starting to climb off the bench. The shriek had made Nick break off his story. ‘What?’ he says, looking away from Harry, up the street to where Pixie’s gesturing wildly towards Harry. She’s coming round the table now and is starting to hop and skip down the street. 

Nick swings his head towards him, and his face breaks open, smile massive, and he lets out a rusty laugh. ‘You bastard,’ he says into the phone before he thumbs it off and starts coming towards him, just ahead of Pix. She still beats him – ‘Out of the way, Grimshaw, you get to have him all the time now’ – and Harry catches her as she swings up, wrapping her legs around his waist and planting a giant wet kiss on his mouth. ‘All right, babes,’ he says, carrying her along. She’s a bit heftier now but he doesn’t care. 

‘Fuck,’ she says into his ear, and squeezes the breath out of him ‘You came. You bastard, you came.’ She pounds him on the back. He laughs as he lets her down and she tucks herself under his arm. He holds the other arm out to Nick who comes to him, kissing him long and unhurried, palm along his face, not seeming to care that they’re all stumbling along together, and somehow they move forward, a weird six-legged beast. He hears a cheer rising from the rest of the table as they approach. He hugs Nick to him and grins at everyone at the table. 

~

They walk back to Nick’s after the pub, just them two. Everyone else had work or kids or both. It’s a warm night. Nick bumps against Harry. ‘I’m really glad you came down.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Harry shrugs. ‘It seemed important.’

‘I’m sorry, I think I misheard.’ Nick grips the back of Harry’s neck lightly. ‘Did you say “Me too Nick! I’m so glad! London’s amazing!”’

 _Amaaaayzin_. Harry snorts and grabs Nick’s hand, pulling it down around his neck, lacing their fingers together. They walk in silence for a bit until Harry tugs gently at Nick’s fingers. ‘I am glad I came. Was dead scared. But it was all right.’

Nick hooks him closer and plants a kiss on his head. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Good.’

They make tea when they get in, then let it go cold as they snog against the countertop, grinding against each other, squeezing arses, gasping into each other’s mouths. They go to bed and fuck. Nick bites Harry’s chin as Harry moves inside him, tipping his head back, looked blissed out, thrusting back against Harry. ‘I thought I was losing you,’ he murmurs. Harry fucks into him harder. ‘Nick,’ he says and leans down to suckle Nick’s throat. They don’t say anything else after that, just ride each other to loud, gripping orgasms. They lie where they finish, Harry between Nick’s thighs, cheek on his chest, Nick pulling his hair through his fingers. 

After a bit, Harry props his chin up and looks at him. Nick strokes strands of Harry’s hair away from his face. He looks a little bit sad. ‘Were you really gonna spend the rest of your life in the States?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry says, surprised by his own honesty. ‘It’s not something I think about. I always figured I’d stay there until I don’t want to any more.’

‘And hasn’t that changed recently?’

Harry wriggles over, nudges catlike into Nick’s stroking. ‘Can’t we just keep everything as it is? Why do we have to change?’

Nick laughs softly. ‘Child,’ he says. Then after a minute Nick brushes mouth against Harry’s temple. ‘I can’t stay there forever, you know. It’s not… real to me.’

‘What about me?’ 

‘Love, you’re the realest thing in my life.’ They’re quiet for a minute. ‘New York’s great,’ Nick says. ‘I think I’m going to love working at WXRD. But there’s nothing else for me there. Just work and you. It’s not enough, H. I love you. But it feels like a sort of mad holiday.’

‘So you’re coming back here.’

‘Please come with me. It was your home before.’

But so long ago, and for such a short time, Harry can barely grasp it through the passage of the years. Tonight had been fun though, and memories had come back, good ones. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘It was.’

After a minute, Nick shifts and reaches over to the bedside table. After a second of rummaging he comes up with his emergency packet of fags. He pokes one towards Harry but Harry shakes his head. 

‘I’ll open a window,’ he says, and hops off the bed. He shoves up one of the sash windows – a bit stiff in its runners – with his palms and leans out into the night. The mild air drifts into the room and Harry gets up to join him. They lean out together, quiet for a while, looking at the garden. There’s a flicker in the corner of Harry’s eye and Nick nudges him. ‘ _Fox_ ,’ he whispers. 

Harry looks towards where Nick nods to and spots the fox making its way gingerly across the top of the back garden wall. It passes through a patch of moonlight and Harry sees how thin it is, its fur patchy.

‘See?’ Nick says. ‘This is what you could be coming back to. There’s no mangy foxes in New York.’

Harry sniggers and reaches across to take the cigarette from Nick and takes a puff. The bitter smoke fills his lungs and makes him dizzy. Nick brushes some imaginary dust off the window sill. ‘And what about kids?’ he says softly. ‘Do you really want to bring them up in America? Away from your family?’

Harry takes another drag of the cigarette. Should have taken a whole one for himself after all – turns out he’s needing it. ‘What about... what?’ he says on the exhale.

‘Kids, H,’ Nick says. ‘It’s not unheard of.’

‘I know,’ Harry says dumbly. ‘I want to. I do.’

He feels like he’s on one of those rickety old wooden rollercoasters, holding onto the guard as it rattles through his bones, threatening to shake him apart. He’s never thought about kids, not properly, because that would mean asking the questions Nick’s just asked him, and he’s always found it easier to ignore them. Cross that bridge when I come to it, he thinks. The trouble is, that bridge is within sight now. 

For a second, he pretends that instead of being on a trip from New York, he’s living here with Nick, and this is their house. He imagines getting up in the morning to go on a job. What kind of job would it be? Who would he know for work here? Could he contact Irwin? 

Or maybe, it occurs to him, he wouldn’t work at all. It’s not like he has to. Maybe he’d just be a latte Dad, look after their kid. Hang out at the bakery with a pushchair while Nick does the radio or writes a column. It suddenly seems very appealing. 

Nick stubs out his cigarette on the sill and flicks it into the garden. 

‘Litterbug,’ Harry says.

‘I’ll get it in the morning. Come on.’ Nick ducks back inside. ‘I’ll leave you alone. Let’s go to bed.’

In bed, Harry tucks himself against Nick’s back, drifting already. ‘You don’t have to leave me alone,’ he mumbles into Nick’s neck, before he sinks under completely. ‘Just give me some time. I want this.’

Nick tugs Harry’s arm more tightly around him in reply and they sleep.

~

They go for lunch before their drive back up North the next day, a new food market in Elephant & Castle, which has finally kept its promise of going up in the world (while Borough Market’s been turned into a glossy corporate mall.) Nick’s sitting with their food while Harry nips back to the kiosk for napkins.

‘Excuse me.’ 

A female voice at his side, once so familiar, now elicits a weird oil-and-water mix of anxiety and pleasure in his chest. He thanks the kiosk-guy for the napkins and turns towards the voice. It’s a woman about his own age, or maybe a bit younger, with a baby on her hip (older than George, younger than Emily, Harry’s still not great at kids’ ages) and sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She’s squinting at him. ‘Are you Harry Styles?’

It’s been a long time since this happened and he’s a bit out of practice. The smile he offers her is genuine though. ‘Yeah, hi. How are you?’

‘God, this is weird. I was just arguing with my husband. He said there was no way it was you.’ 

‘No, it’s me.’

‘Do you live here? Have you, like, been here all this time? You disappeared off the face of the earth. Sorry I’m rabbiting on. I just. It’s a shock. You’re real.’ 

Harry laughed. ‘I’m real. Don’t worry about it. I don’t live here. Just visiting. I.’ He hesitates. He was going to tell her he lives in New York, but he finds he doesn’t want to. Not because he doesn’t want to reveal his whereabouts, but because he has the oddest sensation it isn’t entirely true.

The woman’s smile is growing. ‘Me and my mates loved you back then. Had all your albums. My friend Cassie went to see you, but I wasn’t allowed.’ She’s younger than him then. Young to be a mum. Like his mum was. ‘I always used to imagine bumping into you in the street.’

‘Did you? Sorry to disappoint.’ 

She laughs. Harry wonders when she’s going to fish her phone out. 

‘Nah. Just as well. I’d have been a shaking wreck. I’m not gonna ask for a photo now - you obviously want to be private.’

‘Th- thanks.’ Harry wonders at the uncertainty in his own tone. The child’s getting restless, grabbing at her hair. She removes his fingers carefully and murmurs, ‘No, love.’ He starts to grizzle. ‘Well, better get this one back. Nice to see you. Are you still in music?’

‘No. I’m more on the promo side of things. I’m a photographer.’

‘Cool,’ she says, turning away. 

‘Nice to meet you.’

But she’s disappeared through the crowd, back to her husband. Harry makes his way back to Nick with the napkins. Nick grabs one to wipe off the smear of grease on his cheek, looking up at Harry. There’s mischief in his eyes. He’d obviously watched the whole encounter.

‘What, no selfie?’ he says.

Harry shrugs and sits down. ‘She said she didn’t want to bother me.’

Nick doesn’t say anything for a second or two, just looks at him. ‘Harry Styles,’ he says eventually, quiet and decisive.

‘What?’

‘You’re disappointed.’

Harry is about to deny it, but what’s the point? ‘Yeah.’ He sighs. ‘Maybe a bit.’ He fiddles with the top bit of bun on his burger. ‘God, I’m a diva.’

Nick surprises him with a burst of laughter. ‘Or maybe just a bit of a div. Come on.’ He picks up his burger, nodding at Harry’s. ‘Your lunch is congealing.’

 

**New York**

‘Does that come with the place?’ 

The guy seems to be having trouble tearing his eyes away from Veronica’s chandelier.

‘I can have it removed if you like.’

‘No,’ the guy says thoughtfully. ‘Leave it. If you’re sure you don’t want it.’

Harry shrugs. ‘You can’t take everything with you. It’s good to know I’m leaving it with a happy owner. And the shipping costs’d be astronomical anyway.’

The guy – Frank, Harry remembers – finally looks back at Harry and holds out his hand. ‘Thanks, man. Nice doing business with you.’

Harry grins. ‘Likewise. Well, if you’re ready?’ He gestures towards the lift. They step into it, and Harry hauls the gate closed. It clanks into life and starts its juddery journey downwards. Harry watches his apartment disappear above his head for what he suspects will be the last time. It’s empty now anyway. Most of his stuff shipped to London more than a month ago. He’s just back in New York because there’s finally a taker for the lease. 

‘Could use some grease.’ Frank’s voice breaks in on his thoughts.

‘Hmm?’

‘The elevator.’

‘Yeah. One thing I never got round to.’

Frank shakes his head. ‘Jeez, didn’t the noise drive you crazy?’

‘Kind of got used to it, you know? And you couldn’t burgle me. I always knew when someone was coming.’

Frank laughs and Harry has a flashing memory of the lift bringing Nick to him at four in the morning, stumbling to Harry’s bed for what Harry thought was the last time, then the memory’s gone, and Harry shares Frank’s grin. He’d been wrong, it hadn’t been the last time. Maybe it wasn't the last time he'd see this apartment. Maybe you never knew when the last time for anything was.

And maybe some things never have one.

**Author's Note:**

> you can reblog on tumblr [here](http://tilda.tumblr.com/post/116856132781/fic-an-englishman-abroad-nick-harry-10k).


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